In a Sentimental Mood
by Butane Baby
Summary: Bulma is alone on Mother's Day, by her own design, and feeling less than sentimental about the whole affair - until a special visitor arrives.


"Hey, pretty lady."

"Trunks? How did you -"

"My kaioshin overseers showed mercy. I'm doing a decent job time-patrolling the multiverse, serving the greater good."

Bulma removed her work goggles to survey her "son from the future." He looked healthy enough, more muscular and less bedraggled since their previous encounter. His eyes, however, reflected that same weariness she recognized after their first encounter, when he was 17. Like any caring mother, she wished to erase the hardships that scarred his psyche. But he had long been a grown man. She could only help as much as he allowed.

"And I'm sure you're not giving yourself enough credit, kid. No one in this family settles for just doing a decent job."

"Yeah, I suppose so," Trunks replied, "but I'm kind of old be called a kid anymore, don't you think?"

Bulma laughed, wiping grime from her hands. "Not to me."

He looked around the room. "So where is mini-me?"

"Well, _the other you_ is busy keeping your sister busy, and he's definitely not mini anymore. His growth spurt was incredible after you left the last time -"

"Wait!" Trunks picked her up, hugging her. "Whoa. I have a baby sister?"

"You sure do!" Bulma said eagerly, pushing his hair long lavender hair back. "Her name is Bulla. Now put me down so I can show you pictures. Let's go upstairs. Are you hungry?"

Trunks smirked. "Since when is a Saiyan _not_ hungry?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. How did you get in, by the way?"

"Um, let's see. Remember this?" Trunks lifted his left sleeve, exposing a sleek aviator's wristwatch with a beige-green leather strap. The color complemented his khaki military-style clothing.

The nearly-indestructible timepiece had three chronograph functions. Trunks pressed two shiny dials on the watch's right side, closely watching its whirring tourbillons. A petite image of coding language projected over the crystal glass case.

Feeling stupid, Bulma slapped her head. "Oh! I forgot I gave you that. I believed it was a good idea back then, but now that I think about it, you could be some evil clone looking to destroy us. Now you're in my lab!"

"Exactly." Trunks lifted his right finger, scolding her. "I would say it's time to change the passcode for that particular entryway. Father would be furious. It's nice to know that you expected me to return, though."

"My dear, Vegeta doesn't need help finding subjects to stoke his fury - so that doesn't fly with me." Bulma patted his hand. "You used my gift for its intended purpose. I hoped you would return earlier and live here with us permanently. Your dad had a hard time accepting it when you left again."

Trunks blinked as if he misunderstood her. "Let's… go. I'm here for the next two days."

Bulma sat down in her spacious kitchen, handing Trunks a giant coffee mug. He couldn't be left alone too long before his mind wandered through a lifetime of emotional and philosophical nooks and crannies. He probably could best Vegeta at brooding now.

"You're wondering where he is," she said, leaning back. "He's safe."

"I know."

"Then why do you look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Trunks, sweetie, I may not have raised _you_ directly, but my mind is as sharp as ever. You worry too much. It's not like that between Vegeta and me. You know that."

"I know, mom. I mean, you had another kid, so I'm beyond reassured. I could see how much he loves you the last time I came. There's a lot he didn't say when he was helping me fight on my world, as usual, but you definitely were on his mind."

"So what is it then?"

"I dunno. I guess… well, it's nothing." Trunks eyes darted away from an almost wall-sized calendar drawing speckled liberally with a child's finger paints.

Glancing backward, Bulma's motherly intuition briefly sifted a compendium of calculations. Ah, yes. _Of course._ Now it made sense.

"You didn't know it was Mother's Day?"

"Now I do." Trunks blushed. "That's a pleasant surprise. I guess the kais tried to make this extra special for us both. You and dad must have done a really good deed lately."

"Eh, don't worry," Bulma said, waving her hand. "I'm not a big celebrant anyway. Made me feel like an old lady hearing salespeople screech 'Happy Mother's Day' in every fucking clothing store I visited this week. Anyway, the younger edition of you and Bulla already gave me presents a few days ago. Their extra special gift was _leaving _for a week with their aunt Tights, starting yesterday."

"You didn't want them around?"

Pouring more coffee, Bulma laughed and said, "Only non-parents would be surprised by this. I may be wealthy enough to have five thousand people working for me, but I'm also a hands-on mother. Bulla is four. Her brother is seventeen. That's a hell of an age gap for any parent to manage."

"I guess it would be," Trunks replied.

"Having a break is nice sometimes," Bulma continued. "They're both spoiled rotten, as well. Their father is -"

"In a class by himself," Trunks said. "That goes without saying. He's spoiled rotten, too, you know."

"By who?" Bulma batted her eyelashes innocently. "Certainly not by me! Here. Have some cookies. I think your blood sugar is low. You're hallucinating."

"Ha!" Trunks exclaimed. "_Right_. Keep on believing that. My memory serves me well too. Remember the battle suits you made before father and I fought Cell? You _liked _me more, and yet I know his suit fit better than mine - and you _couldn't_ _stand _each other."

Bulma overlooked his truth-telling. She purposely shaved a few inches from Trunks' compression clothing for greater protection. It still fit appropriately, she believed. At the time she suspected his strength still exceeded Vegeta's, but those two had ego-driven drama between them - troubling everyone - and entirely different fighting styles.

His father also had much to prove because of wounded pride, and would likely scorch earth getting the job done. Sadly, Bulma guessed that Trunks might endanger himself at the wrong times because of his self-conscious concern about gaining Vegeta's approval.

The truth fell in the middle. Both suffered preventable, painful failures during that fateful battle.

"I had no reason to dislike you," Bulma continued. "Other than Gohan, you're the politest, most-focused person I've ever known. Goku and your dad - and, uh, I - aren't blessed _as much_ with that first part."

"Polite is one way to describe me, I suppose," Trunks replied uncomfortably, "but I also learned from all of you the disadvantages of being too deferential."

Bulma lifted a smart monitor built into the breakfast bar, where they were seated, to plan a meal. She moved the screen in Trunks' direction to choose from the appetizing selections. Sometimes he still felt overwhelmed by the luxury of choice - a direct result from years of deprivation and trauma.

"I'll let you pick this time." He tried hiding his apprehension behind a relaxed smile. "You always have great taste."

"When you came here to warn us about the androids - in a time machine no less - I devoted myself to supporting you as much as the other fighters. When I learned your identity, seeing how well your mom raised you heartened me. As a young mother myself, it gave me even more courage, considering the hell you both endured on your world."

Trunks' heart felt heavy and light. Bulma soothed his melancholy, much like her deceased namesake did once. But he wouldn't shed tears this time. He tried not to. They were sharing a special day, and he felt fortunate to see this mother appear happy and fulfilled as a woman. Vegeta's presence in her life supported both outcomes, but it would never define them.

Bulma swiped images on the screen to have the food prepared and delivered. She retrieved a bottle of white wine from underneath the counter, setting in front. Her hand touched Trunks' cheek, observing his silent tears. His head rested on her shoulder.

"It's OK, son. You don't have to withhold those tears around me anymore. It's time. Your pain doesn't frighten me. I spent years doing this with your dad. He's a better man for it."

Trunks's voice reduced to a whisper. "I miss _her _so much. The horrible way she died, seeing it up close, almost broke my soul. You and father helped me through my devastation when I returned here - gave me hope again. I only wish…"

His voice trailed off as Bulma kissed his temple.

"Wish what?" she asked, wiping his tears with her thumbs. She knew the answer, actually, but hoped he would continue. "I'll keep it between us."

"Doesn't matter," Trunks said, standing up to uncork the wine. "I didn't come here to bawl all over you. I really wanted to see everyone."

"You wished she had seen this Vegeta," Bulma continued, polishing a wine glass. "You wish this man had been the one who restored light in her eyes. Especially now that he wholly considers you his son - one he would readily die to protect."

"Mom, look, it's not fair to you -"

"Why not? We were one and the same - and different - and once loved an asshole version of your dad. This Vegeta made good for himself, thank heavens. _It took a lot of work to get there._ Regardless, I would feel similarly if I were you."

Trunks poured the wine without responding at first. He appreciated Bulma's earnestness, but even he felt that extending empathy needed limits. She didn't have to do this.

"I'm happy to change the subject," he said, sounding mildly annoyed.

"Not yet," Bulma insisted. "Just hear me out. There's another side."

* * *

Trunks' eyes and jaw set like slate rock.

Bulma almost stuttered seeing Vegeta's exasperated expression reflected back at her. _That look says it all. He's definitely his father's son._

Trunks sniffed his glass before retreating to the dining table, in the room's center. Bulma followed, carrying a plate of gourmet cheese and wine crackers. He picked up a picture of a younger, smiling vision of himself - this world's Trunks. A happy little girl with lavender pigtails snuggled the teenager's arms.

Bulma waited patiently for him to address her again. Trunks crossed his arms.

"Well?" he rumbled.

_Again, just like Vegeta and our seventeen-year-old brat_, Bulma thought. _As if a deep voice and furrowed brows would make me shut up. Stubbornness only gets worse as one ages._

She tipped her glass at him, accidentally sloshing wine on the table. Trunks cracked a smile, recalling fondly how clumsy the other Bulma had been too. Shaking his head, he summoned a shaggy purple towel from the sink with his right forefinger.

"Telekinesis has its benefits, yes?" he said as the cloth danced into Bulma's wet hands.

"You're damned right it does!" she shouted, slapping the table. "Don't tell him, but that's why I _really _seduced Vegeta. He's a great test subject for my artificial intelligence experiments."

"So you _finally_ admit it." Trunks snickered. "You act like this hasn't been common knowledge - for, you know, decades. All right. _You win_. Finish what you wanted to say."

Bulma paused, pouring more wine. "Honey, I believe your mom let sleeping dogs lie for valid reasons - and not solely because of sadness over your father's early death in your universe. Her life was more fulfilled than you believe, in spite of her hardships, primarily because of you. Are you hearing me?"

Trunks nodded slowly. He knew his birth had been salutary for his beloved mother, who always found a reason to smile and laugh during their darkest moments.

So he smiled.

"Yeah, I hear you. OK, let's digress. Where the hell is your husband?"

"Well, apparently he's not on Earth since you can't sense him," replied sarcastically. "He's training with Goku, of course, silly."

"You sent him away too? Did he get you a gift before he left?"

"Are you kidding me?" Bulma rolled her eyes. "_Walruses_ show more sentiment than that man. Besides, we've been together too long. I would be terrified and hide his hacksaw if he romantically made lovey-dovey eyes at me."

Trunks almost spit out his wine. He laid his head on the table, laughing from deep within his chest. "I was _not_ expecting that. You are hilarious!"

"Would you believe that I can make your dad laugh like this too?" Bulma asked, delighted by his response.

"I can believe it." Robots carried in multiple food platters as Trunks leapt from his seat. "Bose, play '_Jazz Aroma Collection_,' album two, track five."

"Playing," the stereo announced.

"What are you doing?" Puzzled, Bulma whistled for the stereo to pause. "I'm impressed that you remember how to use my sound system, but we have other priorities."

Trunks reached for her hand. "Dance with me, mom."

"_Trunks_, the food just arrived," Bulma said, lightly smacking his fingers. "I thought you were hungry."

"The bots will keep all of it warm." He handed over her wine glass. "Take another sip. Loosen up a bit. Bose, continue music sequence!"

"You're telling me to loosen up?" Bulma grinned, looking up at the skylight. "Oh, the irony of it all. OK, fine - fine - but not too long."

A warm, smoky melodic union of sax and piano and percussion filled the room. Trunks, who looked like a soldier going off to war, bowed and took her hand. Bulma had changed into a red calico print dress and heels after the leaving the lab earlier, now appearing every bit the proud and stately mother. They continued talking, letting the song replay on loop, as the music's easygoing pace guided their dancing.

"What's this song called, hon?" she asked. "This is part of my father's collection."

"Yeah," Trunks answered. "He asked me to give a recording to mom after I met him. It's called '_In a Sentimental Mood_.' Mom and I danced to it sometimes."

"Oh, that was so sweet of dad. I feel so honored that you're sharing this with me."

"I wouldn't have it any other way. Happy Mother's Day."

"Don't you have anything better to do than distract your mother?" a husky voice growled at him from the entryway. "I thought you needed solitude, Bulma. That's what you said before I left."

Bulma released Trunks' hands, placing them on her hips. "I told the truth, prince grouchy. You're back two days early." She squinted. "Why? _What_ _did you do_?"

"Why are you suspicious of my intentions?" Vegeta groused. "I simply wanted to return."

"Ah, I see," Bulma replied, laughing. "Chi Chi told Goku he'd be locked out if he didn't return for Mother's Day. Man, I asked her to cut him a break this time. Babe, you really didn't have to come back yet. I wanted you to have a good session."

Trunks quietly attempted to slink back to the kitchen counter - to no avail.

"You stay _right there_, boy." Vegeta lobbed a razor-thin energy beam at his head, which Trunks swatted away. "You had your chance to get food first. Honor your elder and wait."

"Vegeta, I just had my dream kitchen remodeled!" Bulma snapped. "No ki firing in here!"

"Oh give it a rest, woman. That beam had the power of a lightening bug."

Trunks sighed. "Father, I am in my thirties. Can we move past the 'boy' phase, please? Then I can respectfully call you _old_ and _decrepit_ as much as you prefer."

"Nope." Vegeta smirked. "That other rotten kid with your name will get the same treatment until I'm dead and buried. I'm treating you equally."

Without saying another word, Bulma turned on her heels to retrieve another plate and set of utensils. Vegeta leaned on the dining table, arms upright on the surface. Serious eyes followed her graceful movements through the kitchen, admiring them.

Trunks sidled next to Vegeta, recognizing what he was doing. He refilled Bulma's wine glass, giving it to him. They toasted each other while music hummed in the background.

"Thanks for requesting this for me, father- and for her. It was such a great surprise. You and Goku sure do have powerful friends among the kaioshin."

"You didn't bother to disagree with Bulma after she said I"m less sentimental than a _walrus_," Vegeta snorted. "Nice gratitude showed there, traitor."

Trunks laughed, grabbing his shoulder. "I apologize. Really, I am grateful."

"No need to thank me," Vegeta replied, nodding. "I… am glad to see you too, son."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Dedicating this to my late mother. Miss you, pretty lady. **


End file.
